by Neta Jackson
So when we got Amanda’s call later that afternoon, I wanted to clutch the phone and hold it to my heart. But—duh, Jodi, grow up!—I pushed the speakerphone button so both Denny and I could hear.
“Yep, trip went fine, no snow down here at all . . . but it was kinda interesting to hear Neil talk about the week at our house.”
“He talked ?” Denny said. I punched his shoulder.
“Yeah. He said that Thanksgiving at his house was always just a lot of eating and football games on TV. But he can’t remember his family ever actually giving thanks to God for anything—saying it aloud, he meant. He was really touched—yeah, that’s the word he used: ‘touched’—when the hurricane evacuees all had something to give thanks for, even the little kids . . . Oh, and he said that was the first time he’d gone to church in a long time too. I guess the Advent dance and the song about expecting the Son of God to come, and those verses Pastor Cobbs preached on from the Old Testament, really made him think—though he called having church in a shop-ping center a little weird.”
My heart softened toward the young man from Tallahassee. God had told me to “sow the seeds” . . . but I realized God had used the whole fabric of our lives to touch Neil’s heart. Amanda’s invitation to come home with her, spending Thanksgiving Day at a shelter full of destitute women and children, holding hands around our table as we prayed for Carmelita, playing games and laughing, thanking God for our food at Walker Bros. Pancake House, taking him to church, sharing the Word of God through song and dance and the Word—all woven together in a way we probably took for granted.
Huh. I also realized how easily I could have ruined the gentle tapestry God was weaving. Thanks, God, for keeping me from shoot-ing off my big mouth.
“So.” Denny cleared his throat. “You two pretty good friends?” He gave me a look that said, Might as well ask instead of guess.
Amanda hooted on the other end of the phone. “Are you kid-ding? I am so relieved to have him off my hands, I could dance all over the campus! Longest Thanksgiving vacation of my whole life.”
I could hardly wait to end the call so I could laugh aloud. She was relieved? That made two of us!
6
Crrr-raaaack-ba-boom! A clap of thunder so loud it sounded as if a chain saw was ripping the school apart was equaled only by C the screams of a dozen of my third graders, who dove under their desks. “Class, class, it’s all right; it’s only thunder,” I tried to soothe. But another crrr-aaaack! and a streak of lightning outside our classroom window drowned out my words.
I glanced at the thermometer mounted just outside the win-dow. Sixty degrees. Sheesh. What weird weather we were having. Below freezing and our first snow last week; now, the first school day after the Thanksgiving holiday, balmy as spring—what my mom used to call “Indian summer” after the first frost. But the mild temperatures had also cooked up a major thunderstorm, which was now slashing rain against the windows and turning the sky a creepy green.
By the time the last bell rang, the rain had slackened to a mere drizzle, but I was still pretty soaked by the time I got home, and the temperature was falling again. Shivering, I stripped off my wet clothes, hopped in the shower, warmed myself up with Denny’s robe and a cup of hot tea, and booted up the computer to check e-mail.
Whoa! Eighty new messages. Huh. You’d think I would have stayed current during the holidays, but with Amanda home, a guest in the house, and all that extra cooking, I just never got around to it.
I scrolled through the e-mails. Spam . . . Weekly calendar from SouledOut . . . This is cute—pass it on (from one of my college class-mates who never wrote a personal note but jammed my in-box with “Fwd. Fwd. Fwds”) . . . More spam—
Hey! One from Nony. Sent two days ago. I clicked it open . . .
To: Yada Yada
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Details! Details!
We are so excited, dear Yada Yada sisters, to see you soon! The end of the boys’ school term is 2 December, but Mark very much wants to stay for the National Day of Reconciliation, which is 16 December. This year is especially momentous, as it is the tenth anniversary of the establishment of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission after the end of apartheid. There will be speeches, concerts . . . an important public holiday in South Africa.
So we will be arriving in Chicago sometime the week right after Christmas. I will let you know details as soon as our plans are finalized. This only gives us three weeks to sell our house in Evanston and get back in time for the new school year, which starts 18 January, but—
My heart clutched. “Sell our house . . . get back . . . ” Nony and Mark must have decided to make the move to KwaZulu-Natal permanent! Had I missed something? Wasn’t Mark on sabbatical from Northwestern University? Didn’t that mean he was supposed to come back?
I stared at the computer screen, my emotions churning. Okay. Sure. Part of the reason they’d gone to South Africa was to explore whether to follow Nony’s heart and relocate long term. Mark had accepted a position as guest lecturer in the history department at the University of KwaZulu-Natal. Emphasis on guest. Nony had put feet to her passion and gotten involved with HIV/AIDS classes in schools. But frankly, I’d been hoping, praying—okay, assuming—they’d come back to the States after a year or two. After all, Mark and the boys were as American as we were!
Jodi, Jodi. The Holy Spirit interrupted my inner rant.What happened to, “Not my will but Thy will be done”?
I know, Lord, but—
That goes for your love for Nony and her family too. I have them in the palm of My hand. But you must open yours and hold them loosely, My daughter.
I squeezed my eyes shut, resisting the urge to stop up my inner ears. But I miss Nony so much.
I know. You will see her soon. Be glad! Celebrate!
I opened my eyes. Right. That’s what we needed to do when Nony arrived—celebrate! Party! Hoshi would be back, too, hopefully.
Okay, Lord, we’re going to enjoy them while we can. And . . . thank You for bringing this beautiful sister into my life. What a gift she has been to me and to all the Yada Yadas! But You’re right—she’s a gift, not a possession. Nony belongs to You.
I was just about ready to shut down the computer and start sup-per for Denny and me (which these days often meant warming up leftovers from the night before) when a new e-mail went ping!— and popped into my in-box.
From Becky Wallace. She hardly ever sent e-mails. Curious, I opened it.
To: Yada Yada
From: [email protected]
Subject: need boxes!
hey, sisters, i think i found an apartment that’s going to work for me and little andy. i can move in dec 17 but i need boxes. lots of boxes. i have more stuff now than i did when i moved in here, ha ha. you can bring them to yy on sun-day, we’re meeting here, at florida’s house i mean. thanks!
becky
Huh. Somebody needed to show that girl what the Shift key was for.
SOME INDIAN SUMMER. It lasted all of one soggy day, and then all that rain froze, leaving the side streets, sidewalks, and alleys slick with ice. Not to mention tree branches and iron fences, sparkling like exquisite ice sculptures under the streetlights. The ice on the ground was deceptive, melting in places during the day, then refreezing thin and clear at night like a newly waxed floor.
All of which made lugging home the boxes that I’d collected at school a bit tricky. Taking baby steps along the sidewalks, walking on crunchy patches of grass where I could, it took me twice as long to get home as it normally did. “Should’ve just stuffed these boxes in Avis’s car and let her bring them to Becky on Sunday,” I muttered to the empty house as I finally made it, still upright, inside our front door and kicked the boxes into the foyer ahead of me.
Denny—whose motto seemed to be, “If one is good, more must be better!”—arrived home with four more boxes, neatly nestled one inside the other. “Thought Becky could use these. They’ve been sitting around the athle
tic department for a week.”
I surveyed the stacks of boxes in our dining room. Why did I even bother bringing boxes home before Friday? Now they’d be sitting around our house all week.
“Tell you what,” Denny said, gamely pushing boxes into a corner so we could eat our leftover fettuccine at the dining room table. “Oscar Frost offered to pick me up at school one of these Thursday nights and do the driving down to the JDC. You can take me to school tomorrow, keep the car, and take these boxes over to Becky’s tomorrow night.”
Sounded good to me. Denny, Oscar, and some of the other SouledOut men were still leading Bible studies Thursday nights at the juvenile detention center—had been ever since Chris Hickman had been incarcerated for several months two years ago. Now that the kids were out of the house and even Wonka was gone, Thursday nights often felt like solitary confinement— though I didn’t admit it to Denny. To fill up the silence, I usually put on one of Israel and New Breed’s CDs and pumped up the volume, or ran upstairs to bother Stu and Estelle.
Well, this Thursday I’d stay late at school and grade all my papers before I came home, and then I’d go over to the Hickmans’, get Becky’s boxes out of my hair, and hang out with Florida. Or Becky. Whoever would put up with me. Maybe we could start brainstorming ideas for our Yada Yada reunion party. Like when. And where. It’d have to be after Christmas, but before school started again . . .
But of course it started to snow early Thursday morning.
Morning traffic snarled along like a head full of dreadlocks. “Sorry, babe,” Denny said when I let him out at the corner of West Rogers High. “I thought this would be helpful. Got your cell phone in case you need it?”
“Yes, got the cell. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” We were now a four-cell-phone family, which seemed ridiculous at times, but I had to admit having my own cell phone had rapidly become indispensable—though I sometimes felt slightly silly standing in an aisle at the grocery store, calling Denny to see if we needed any more onions.
I barely squeaked into the parking lot at Bethune Elementary before the first bell rang, so I felt off-balance most of the day with-out my usual half hour to quiet my spirit, pray for my students, glance over my lesson plans, or read the daily staff bulletin.
But the last bell finally rang, and I was grateful to kick back in the quiet classroom with a cup of hot instant soup, courtesy of the teachers’ lounge microwave. I prayed for two of my students, both of whom had hacking coughs and had probably infected half the class; finally read the staff bulletin, which informed me I was sup-posed to turn in midterm grades by next Friday; picked up the usual assortment of “left behind” items—a hat, three unrelated mittens, a wet sock, homework pages that were supposed to go home, and a Game Boy with no batteries; and finally tackled the stacks of book reports and math homework I had to grade.
It was dark outside by the time I finished grading papers, packed up my tote bag, and headed for the parking lot. The janitor had to let me out, but at least I had the car and didn’t have to walk home. I felt good. My tote bag felt light. I hummed a wobbly ver-sion of “It Is Well With My Soul,” wishing I could remember all the verses of that grand old hymn.
The snow had stopped, but I still drove at fifteen miles an hour on the icy side streets, which hadn’t been plowed or salted, and probably wouldn’t be since it had only snowed a couple of inches. I decided to go straight to the Hickmans’ and get rid of Becky’s boxes, afraid that if I went home first, I wouldn’t want to go out again, and all of Denny’s good intentions for leaving me the car would have been for nothing.
Rats. I forgot about parking. The Hickmans’ rented house was only about six blocks from us, squeezed between a couple of three-story apartment buildings. Cars lined the curbs bumper to bumper. I drove around the block, which took me out onto busy Clark Street, grinned as I passed Adele’s Hair and Nails, brightly lit with twinkling lights in the window, and was tempted by an empty parking meter. Nope. No way could I carry all those boxes in one load, and I wasn’t about to make two trips in this weather.
I’d just about decided to double-park in front of the Hickman house, unload the boxes, and forget about hanging out with Florida tonight, when a car pulled out at the far end of their block and its taillights disappeared around the corner. A parking space! Thank You, Jesus!
Well, why not? I was thankful.
I backed carefully into the parking space,maybe six inches farther out from the curb than I should be, but who cared? Pulling up the collar of my winter jacket and slinging my purse over my shoulder, I picked up the largest set of boxes from the back of the minivan, locked the car, and started gingerly up the slippery sidewalk toward the Hickmans’. I’d send one of the kids out for the other boxes.
Hearing muffled footsteps running behind me, I walked a bit faster. Wish I’d parked closer to the house—
Without warning, my feet flew out from under me as someone jerked my purse off my shoulder with the full force of a run. I didn’t have time to think before I spun around and crashed to the icy sidewalk on my back, the boxes flying out of my hands. Pain shot up my leg, as if I’d been stabbed by a hot knife . . . my left leg! The one I’d broken in the accident . . . but the pain shot up from my ankle, which was twisted under my body.
I let out a cry of pain—just as I saw two more figures headed straight for me. Terrified, I threw up my arms to protect my face . . . but the two figures, bundled up against the cold, simply parted as if I was a traffic island and kept running.
They weren’t going to hurt me! I tried to get up, but the pain pushed me down. “Help! My ankle! . . . Somebody, help me!” Hot tears squeezed from my eyes. “Ohh,” I groaned. “My ankle . . . I can’t . . . ”
Far down the block I heard someone yell, “Boomer! Whatchu doin’? Come on!”
I twisted my head, trying to see. But pain and tears blurred my vision. I tried again to get up, but the pain was too great. No way was I going to walk on this ankle.Oh God, help me . . . help me . . .
Again that voice, further away. “Boomer, you idiot! Get outta there! . . .We’re leavin’, man!” The voice faded.
Cold seeped through my slacks. I started to shiver. I had to get out of here . . . my cell phone! I had my cell phone! Frantically I patted my jacket pockets . . . nothing. Oh no! Did I put it in my purse? . . . No. I distinctly remember putting it in my pocket, with my keys—
A head crossed my vision. I couldn’t see a face—just a hooded jacket and knit cap pulled low, the face in shadow. But someone was bending over me.
I flinched . . . then gasped, “Help me . . . please. I’m hurt. I need my cell phone. I . . . lost it when I fell. Do you see it?”
The figure straightened. Had to be just a teenager. He looked about, and then bent down and picked up something . . . my phone! He flipped it open and punched the keys. I heard three beeps, then a Send tone. Three beeps? “What—?”
But before I could ask who he was calling, the person set the phone down on the ground about six inches from my fingers . . . and ran.
7
For half a second, I forgot the pain in my ankle.What in the world—?
Then I heard a faraway voice. “9-1-1 operator. F What”—I snatched the phone off the ground and put it to my ear—“is your emergency?”
“Uh, uh . . . I’m sorry. Dialed by mistake. Sorry.” I fumbled with my cold fingers, managed to flip the phone closed. The lighted LED died. I let my head fall back to the snowy sidewalk. No way did I want to lie here for ten minutes waiting for paramedics to arrive, and it was probably just a sprained ankle anyway. The Hickmans were just up the street. That’s what I needed to do—call Florida and Carl, tell them I’m lying out on their sidewalk, feeling like a fool.
Good thing I had the Hickmans’ number on speed dial. My brain felt like cold oatmeal. And the pain in my ankle robbed me of lucid thought. Carl was at my side in half a minute, no coat, Florida right behind him. I was so glad to see them, I started to cry.
“J
odi Baxter! What—? Never mind. I’m gonna call 9-1-1.”
“No, no,” I gasped. “It’s just a sprained ankle. Just get me to your house. Please.”
Between the two of them and me hobbling on one foot, they got me inside. I sank down on their couch, winced as Florida pulled off my boot, but gratefully accepted the pillows she used to prop up my left foot. “Ice,” she muttered. “Gotta get ice on that foot. Carl, where you goin’?”
“Goin’ to pick up Jodi’s stuff lying out there on the sidewalk. I saw a bunch of boxes. Those yours? What else is out there? You got your purse? ”
I shook my head. “I was bringing boxes for Becky. But my purse . . . it’s gone. That’s what happened. Somebody ran up behind me, grabbed my purse, made me fall down . . .” I blinked back hot tears, suddenly feeling the full weight of fear and pain now that I was inside and safe and among friends.
Both Carl and Florida stared at me. “I’m calling the police,” Carl muttered.
“No, wait! I . . . give me a minute to think, please?” I wanted to stay on the Hickmans’ couch. I didn’t want police standing around in their living room asking questions.
Carl scratched his head. Like Denny. Did all men do that when they felt frustrated? Then he yelled up the stairs. “Chris! Cedric! Get down here! I need some help!”
The two boys came clattering down the stairs—and stopped, staring at me propped up on the couch. “What’s wrong, Mrs. B?” At sixteen, Chris Hickman had shot up as tall as his dad—and was as good-looking.
“Don’t you be askin’ no questions,” Florida scolded on her way to the kitchen. “Just git on outside, help your dad pick up Mrs. Baxter’s things. She . . . fell.”